


Wash, Condition

by the_rat_wins



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Shaving, Showers, That's it, can you blame me?, i just want to read 45 fics about Bucky washing his hair, that's all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-05-21
Packaged: 2018-06-09 20:06:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6921178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_rat_wins/pseuds/the_rat_wins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Buchanan Barnes takes a shower.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wash, Condition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dante_kent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dante_kent/gifts).



> For Liz's birthday, literally just Bucky washing his hair. That's it. That's the fic.

There are three identical white bottles on the counter. James Buchanan Barnes picks them up and examines them, one by one.

Each has a word on the front, written in English. But something isn’t working in his head right now, and he can’t make sense of it.

He unscrews the lids and smells the white gel inside the bottles. The scent is like flowers, but nothing specific. Nothing he recognizes. Just flowers.

The water pounding out of the shower behind him is hot. Steaming. The steam fills the small room, covers the mirror, makes the air cloudy.

The door is locked. The door of the room outside is locked and dead-bolted and has a chair under the handle.

Maybe not enough to stop . . . anything. But enough for a warning.

So. Now, a shower.

It is not, he knows, unusual for him to shower after a mission. He is capable of cleaning himself. Depending on the location, it is sometimes essential to mission success.

He tells himself this. And yet.

It’s not the same. It is _not_ the same. Because afterward . . . what?

He doesn’t know.

He can’t . . .

His breath is coming quickly now, harsh and loud in the small white-tiled room.

No. No. He swallows. He takes a deep breath. The fake smell of flowers fills his nose.

He takes all three bottles and lines them up on the edge of the bathtub, within reach. Then he starts to undo the straps of his jacket. Halfway down, he feels his hands start to shake, his movements becoming jerky and frantic. He closes his eyes and slows down. Lets the mechanical motions soothe him with their simplicity.

Pull the strap, let it loose. Move to the next one.

There are bruises across his ribs, a painful scream of strained muscle in his arm. Healing, but still enough to cut through the white noise buzz in his mind.

_You’re my friend._

No.

He’s standing under the water. It’s hot, runs into every scrape and cut, burning, building to a point of pain that spikes, lengthens, and then eases down, leaving him gasping.

Something underneath is keeping track of the time, wondering at how the hot water pours down, minute after minute, never cold, never dirty.

The steam billows around the room, and he breathes it in, wet and hot, over and over, steady. He can hear his heartbeat in his ears, regulated. Calm. He is calm.

Reaching down, he grabs the nearest little bottle and empties its contents, slick and shining, into the palm of his right hand. He rubs it tentatively into his hair, one-handed. It doesn’t seem to have much effect.

His hand is shaking again, protesting the angle so soon after being reset. He lowers it, and lets both arms stay limp at his sides, eyes closed, the water beating against his face. The fake floral smell surrounds him. He lets out a breath, and it’s almost like a laugh.

_Buck, I can do it! You don’t—_

_Oh come on, you’ve had that thing off for two hours and you think—_

Shit. He closes his eyes, trying to keep the voices talking, but they fade out, like . . . like . . .

_The reception on this thing is shot again._

_I’ll take it to Cortlandt, there’s a guy down there owes me a favor._

He gasps at how near the voices are, right in his ear, and he’s not doing anything but his hands are shaking, shaking so hard. He buries his face in his hands and exhales, hears it catch in his throat, on the lump rising in his throat _Steve Steve where are you_

Then, as quickly as it came over him, it’s gone. His muscles relax, his shoulders slump down, and the only sound is the water hitting the plastic curtain, hitting the hard porcelain, pinging sweetly off the metal of his arm.

He blinks once, twice to clear the water from his eyes. Then he reaches for the next little bottle and empties it into his hand, lathering it up in his hair and feeling the oil and dirt stripping off. The strands still clump together, so he goes for the third bottle, slimier than the others, and with a different, sharper smell. It’s . . . nice. He leans his head forward, lets the water stream through his hair, over his face, the suds sliding down, rinsed away, washed down the drain. No new sounds. No new voices.

Quiet.

All the bottles are empty now. He should turn the water off.

He doesn’t. Doesn’t want to hear the silence pressing in around him. Doesn’t want to go back outside. Doesn’t want to be found.

This isn’t the first time he’s gotten away.

(He thinks of the ships falling, of the buildings on fire.)

It might be the last.

Something in him hardens at the thought. _Won’t be taken alive,_ he hears, and it’s from somewhere outside him, but he agrees.

The safety of the water and the white-tiled room and the chair jammed under the door is an illusion. Real safety comes from movement, avoidance, loss of visual contact. Losing himself. A drop in the ocean. The sooner he starts, the easier it will be.

He turns off the water and steps out of the tub, going to stand in front of the little mirror over the sink. It's steamed over, so he reaches out and wipes it clean with his forearm. Doesn't look himself in the eye.

His hair is wet and stuck together, but he can smell that it’s clean. Without thinking, his fingers come up and touch the stubble on his cheeks and chin, the hair rasping under his touch.

There’s a protocol for this. Not a recent one, but still.

His gear is lined up on the bed outside. He pulls out one of his smaller pocket knives, then goes back and stands in front of the mirror.

The paper-wrapped bar of soap is opened and in his hands before the rest of him has caught up, and then he’s getting it wet, rubbing it into a slippery white layer, and spreading it across his face. With his left hand, he holds the skin taut, and with the other, he flicks the knife open and scrapes it in quick, soft strokes down his cheek, his neck, under his throat where he can see his pulse flickering. The edge of his chin gives him a little trouble. The soft sound of the blade against the hair fills the room, and he rinses the blade and taps the water off it over and over, without thinking. His body moves without need for input or second-guessing. Automatic. Smooth.

He nicks himself once, small and shallow, and it seals up almost before the blood can bead. He swipes the little smear of red away and swallows, lowering the knife. His skin is flushed in places, from the pull of the blade. He should have used more soap.

He glances up into the mirror, meets his own eyes, and the face that looks back at him is blank, impassive. Cold.

His mouth drops open a little, and it looks stupid. He closes it again, and sees a grimace pass across the face in the mirror, then smiles in answer to that.

He blinks at the face. At himself. It’s . . . strange.

Rinsing the knife clean and drying it on the towel next to the sink, he shuts it, places it carefully on the shelf under the mirror. He wipes the last bits of soap and water from his skin. Both arms are functioning more normally now, the muscles contracting and relaxing with only a twinge of pain, the metal clear of grit and gunk, the plates sliding smoothly.

He lets out a breath. Takes another one. Straightens his spine, squares his shoulders. Feels his metal hand curl into a fist, then relax again. Meets his own gaze in the mirror.

It’s nice to be clean.


End file.
